


Not Fair

by wellmet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 07:17:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7748290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellmet/pseuds/wellmet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Mary sort out their lives. Mary is doesn't like suburbia</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Fair

**Author's Note:**

> I thought season 3 was like a soap opera - and I don't like soap operas. This suddenly came to me and no one need die.

NOT FAIR  
Meretseger 2016

Moriarty: It's not fair there are two of you.  
John: Always.

John woke up, rubbing at eyes that were always tired these days. Beside him Mary slept deeply, her body needing its rest as she neared her time. John turned his head to look at her and wondered why he was … not un-happy but definitely not-happy. He seemed to be caught between wanting to be with his wife and daughter and wanting to be with Sherlock. He kept remembering that conversation at the Falls when he and Sherlock had defeated Moriarty. It was just a dream, of course, but it had seemed so real at the time. He had never dreamed so clearly and remembered it so well. If he concentrated he could still almost feel the weight of woollen cloth, the more restricting cut of the old fashioned clothes, the crowded street outside their flat, the smell of horses and smoke from coal fires. Sighing he got up knowing he wouldn't get any more sleep even though it was barely light outside. It was cold and he tied his dressing gown tighter over his flannel pyjamas and went to make himself a cup of tea. Behind him Mary kept on sleeping.

Warming his hands on the mug of tea John sat and looked out of the windows over the sink at the back garden. He sometimes found it rather silly that it was laid out in so traditional a way. Lawn, bird bath, annuals in neat rows along the walls, an espaliered apple tree where the sunlight was best, box edging. God, they even had a resident black bird and a robin that dropped in for bacon rind! Suburban bliss. Or in his case suburban … what ever not liking the life we are living in suburbia was called. 

Straightening his back John told himself that this was what he had chosen; even if getting Mary pregnant had been an accident he still had a responsibility to his wife and child. And he had always thought that one day he'd marry and have a family. Even if he had stayed in the Army he would have married and had children. 

As he took another sip of hot tea John stopped at a sudden realisation. Yes, he'd always thought he'd marry and have children but he never done anything about actually doing those things. He'd had girlfriends, loved them a little, gone back to the war and forgotten them. Or gone back to Sherlock, not really worried that his relationship with the world's only Consulting Detective was ruining his relationships. At any time he could have ignored the texts that interrupted dates, moved out of their shared rooms, turned off his mobile phone and concentrated on settling down into his new career as a GP in a busy clinic. But he had done none of those things and here he was, married, about to be a father, and unsettled. 

And his leg ached and he had a habit of rubbing it …

John Hamish Watson, late of the Royal Army Medical Corp, Captain and Combat Surgeon (Ret'd) was not a coward, nor was he a food. He stood up, took a deep breath and went upstairs to dress - and pack. He knew he would be hurting Mary, deserting his daughter but as he climbed the stairs he realised that his leg had stopped aching, that he felt better than he had in a long time. That it was time to go home. To Baker   
Street. 

But first he had to talk to Mary. He could not just run away and leave her. 

Mary was waiting for him when he entered the bedroom, sitting up against the headboard of their bed. "You have made a decision," she said. "I was wondering how long it would take you to do that."

"Too long," John answered. "I should have realised earlier …"

"Not an easy decision, in the circumstances." Mary shrugged. "It's not your child."

"What?" 

Again the shrug. "Do you remember when I went away with a friend to Ireland for a weekend?" John nodded. "It was for a job. You know?" 

John nodded again. He had known what Mary was, Sherlock had told him. "I did the job, easy. But I was high on the adrenalin of success and there was a man … well, she put a hand on her swollen belly. "This happened. I had DNA testing done."

"But you shot Sherlock to keep the secret of who you were so I'd marry you. Why tell me now?" 

"Because I don't want this life," Mary answered, getting out of bed. "I have decided that I don't want to keep her. And I don't think you will want her when you go back to Sherlock. I'm going away to have the baby, I'm going to tell them that I'm not married, that I can't keep her and put her up for adoption. I have been waiting to tell you, wondering which of us would crack first when it came to admitting the truth."

John felt himself smiling for the first time in a long time. "You can stay here for as long as you like." 

Mary shook her head. "I've made arrangements to go into a private hospital, have the baby and then fly back to The States. You keep the house or the money, what ever you like." She moved over to the wardrobe and took out a dress. "I have told our friends at the Clinic the truth - about the baby at least - and that I'm going to its father. That I tricked you as I thought you'd be a good catch but I realise that I love him and not you." She threw the dress on the bed and went to sort out underwear. "They were not impressed." Her smile was not at all repentant. "All the details of where I will be until I'm free to go back to the jobs I have missed are in an envelope in a drawer in the kitchen. I wouldn't want people to report me missing and have you arrested for murdering me."

John laughed and shook his head. "Oh, Mary. Would you like me to help you pack?"

Mary laughed, too, a sound John had missed lately. "Yes, please. And I'd love a cup of tea - no make that coffee." Already her accent was slipping, becoming more American than English.   
It was late afternoon when John helped Mary into a taxi with all her luggage and went back into the house. He emptied the fridge, cancelled the milk and the newspaper, made sure all the windows were locked and called a taxi for himself. And went home to two hundred and twenty one B Baker Street and Sherlock Holmes. And The Work.


End file.
